Along the Northern California coastline near Fort Bragg, a white picket fence punctuates the rolling green landscape. Inside, several headstones commemorate the lives of some of the early settlers of the region. I walk between them, studying names and dates: R.H. Anderson—perhaps the namesake family of nearby Anderson Valley?—died in 1888 at age 63; a small marker honors Minnie Effie Snider, who didn’t make it to her second birthday.
Sea oats and fir trees dance in the breeze as seagulls squawk in a bright blue sky and the mighty Pacific crashes against the jagged shoreline a few dozen yards away. However short their lives may have been, the eternal residents of the tiny Newport cemetery now share one of the most beautiful final resting places I have ever seen.
As a tombstone tourist—a term used to describe travelers who visit cemeteries—I’ve always sought out these eternally quiet places. Not only do they beckon as respite from busy cities, but they also provide a deeply personal connection to local history, revealing perspectives that no glass-encased museum exhibit ever could. It brings me comfort, especially in this turbulent era, to know our ancestors experienced enormous, life-churning events, too—from the Little Ice Age to the Great Depression and war after war. And yet, as a people, we endure.
Occasionally, experts classify visiting burial grounds as “dark tourism,” or seeking out destinations associated with tragedy and death. But I don’t characterize cemetery exploration as voyeuristic or sensational. Instead, I find graveyards uplifting and comforting—and, more often than not, a testament to the lasting power of the human spirit.
On my South American honeymoon, I raced right to the sprawling Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires’s tony neighborhood of the same name. Many famous Argentines rest in this labyrinthine city of the dead, brimming with more than 6,400 elaborate, over-the-top mausoleums, crypts, statues, and tombs as stylish and sophisticated as Porteños themselves. The star of this open-air museum is undoubtedly Eva “Evita” Perón (née Duarte; 1919–1952), a beloved if controversial actress and politician whose memory remains alive in the hearts of many Argentines. They often leave fresh flowers at the door of the Duarte Family mausoleum, a towering structure of polished black stone.
During a family reunion in Daufuskie Island, South Carolina, I visited the Cooper River Cemetery, one of several small burial sites on the island. It’s home to graves of Gullah people, many once enslaved plantation workers, who buried loved ones near water so their souls could return to West Africa. I appreciated this powerful resolve to connect with one’s homeland, even in death.
But nowhere pierces my heart more than German cemeteries, where special sections are dedicated to babies who die before or shortly after birth. Small headstones bearing a single, telling date are decorated with toys and stuffed animals. These sacred spaces honor sternenkinder, or star children.
My husband and I suffered multiple pregnancy losses before becoming parents, and I had never seen any public tribute to this private grief in the United States. When I first caught sight of these tiny graves during my cemetery walks after our family moved to Berlin, I felt a profound sense of connection with fellow parents who endured the same pain.
On a scientific level, a stroll among graves just might be good for you—even beyond the physical benefits of walking. One study found that participants were more likely to help others (say, picking up a dropped item) within a cemetery than a block outside, suggesting graveyards can help shape you into a kinder, more thoughtful person. Other research reveals that an awareness of death can help people lead better and healthier lives, a topic that has gained traction following the pandemic’s peak. In Sweden, the “gentle art” of döstädning, or death cleaning, involves decluttering for your descendants, while end-of-life doulas, also known as death doulas, have become more popular in mainstream American culture.
Another benefit for me has been bonding with my dad, who shares my love of exploring cemeteries and graveyards. (Fun fact: The former are standalone, nonsecular public spaces; the latter are usually next to a church.) We visit at least one on every trip together. Sometimes, we stick together, other times, we split up to explore at our own pace (my dad reads every last word on every last placard). Over the years, we’ve developed a contest of sorts to find the oldest headstone date, and we often express our humbled awe over previous generations’ physical and mental fortitude.
Most recently, we strolled on a chilly November day through the tumble of tombstones at Boston’s Granary Burying Ground, dating to 1660. As we stood silently side by side over the nondescript headstone of Paul Revere, one of several Revolutionary War heroes buried there, I suspect we shared a similar thought: wondering what the man would think about the current state of the democracy he’d helped found nearly 250 years ago.
In 2025, I’ll celebrate a milestone birthday, and no doubt my own mortality will be increasingly front of mind with every cemetery I explore, along with the bucket-list trips I have yet to take. Among those: visiting Mexico during the Día de Los Muertos holiday on November 1. It’s been a lifelong dream to join these world-famous celebrations in a place like Michoacán or Oaxaca, where cemeteries come to spectacular life with glowing candles, marigold petals, and families gathering around festive ofrendas that honor the dead. What better way to remind us of the fragility and beauty of the human experience, however long we’re lucky enough to live it?
